O Clockwork Heart, Why Dost Thou Still Beat?
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: Death does not feel as we do. It only knows. For it to do so goes against its very nature. [post-Reflections][No pairings]


**Notes1:** The initial inspiration for this came from Reaper's panel during the Reflections comic, and, true to my form, it was going to touch upon the idea that, "high functioning psycopath" though he may be, he still has a little bit of humanity left in him - the standard, angsty fare. However, as I was looking through my prompt dump doc for something to work on, I thought _"This seems a bit too easy. You_ could _do it this way, but surely others have done something similar to what I've thought?"_ , and, although I don't frequent the Overwatch archive that much, I have seen a couple Reaper-centric fanfics revolving around that comic here and there. So I thought about other venues I could proceed with. Something to give this piece a bit more spice to it. This is the result.  
 **Notes2:** As an aside: If Reaper is indeed one of the leading figures of Talon, a merc for hire, or an active member, I like to believe that with all his failures in his missions - trying to steal Doomfist's gauntlet, the assassination attempts on Winston, Soldier: 76, and Katya Volskaya (but that last was more from Sombra having her own agenda) - someone should be taking these all into account and, you know, "pull him to the side". I'm pretty sure Talon has ways of dealing with his wraith-like abilities.

* * *

The man you knew before is dead. He has been dead for quite some time. That man was a soft thing, a pliant thing, stretched and folded and stretched again like a ball of clay. You know how clay is—play with it long enough and it will become thin and transparent, made loose by the warmth of your hands.

But you put yourself in the fire, didn't you? Put your heart and soul in the kiln and watched the clay harder, heavier, emptier. Every little slice of the sculpting knife took a piece out of you, right from the mold and into the fire to be charred and devoured.

The founding of Overwatch.

The escalation of the Omnic Crisis.

The promotion to Head of Blackwatch.

The coup d'etat at the Swiss Headquarters.

Ana.

Jack.

All your friends, these…people that man once called…putting themselves on the line to brighten a world where the shadows cast from the sun are long and always at their darkest. But what have they done that you haven't? What have they done to make the world a better place? To ensure children are born in peace and in the smell of fresh air, away from war and the stink of rot and death?

It all seems so pointless in the end, doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

Even on this holiday season, with the snow falling as wisps in the fairy tales from a quieter, brighter, simpler and more…surreal time and the streets packed with people bundled in their wool-lined coats and jackets, the pall still hangs. Like a storm encroaching on the horizon, dark and fit to burst, low to the ground but never seeming to move onward.

Time. Time is all we have.

You are death incarnate. It is all you know. Time is your ally, never your enemy. The ages may pass and civilizations may come and go, but you will never change. In death, there is only the dust in your bones and the darkness that once flowed through your veins. This clockwork heart you have made for yourself and put in that clay shell of nicks and notches…it knows nothing, feels nothing. It operates only on time…and blood. Blood is what makes it tick, after all. Blood is what reminds you that time is a great teacher, and that in the end it kills all its pupils.

Pupils that never seem to learn.

But hey, all the more reason for you to dispense that knowledge, don't you think? Of course.

Of course. It is through that recourse that you are still—how shall we put it?—still living? No no no. Still thriving? No. Ah, yes! _Still enduring_. Yes! That's more like it. It is through death and mayhem you still endure. The more you suffer, the more you grow. The more you come out feeling whole. Worn, perhaps, but none the worse for wear.

Which brings us to the reason I have brought you here, Reaper: you are showing more wear and tear than is…appropriate…for Talon agents and constituents. Yes, we're all than a little more wrong in the head upstairs, but we're doing what we think is right for this world. Sometimes we have to get our hands dirty. Sometimes we have to wash them clean. Most of all, we have to mentally prepare ourselves to bear the full weight of our responsibilities. You know how that goes.

I'm sad to say you haven't been keeping up with that. Let's just say…I've been hearing a lot of birds in this old place. Things like, oh I don't know, the state of your mission records. The things you've been doing on your downtime. It's…well…it's unbecoming of you, and all of us here at Talon believe that they're hindering your duties. Your concentration. And we can't really afford to have you distracted.

Now if you'll just let us help…What's that? We can't do that to you? Reaper, who do you think you're talking to? We're hard folk. We don't play around. We do what's best for our people. If that means we have to force them back on track, then all's well. We need all the time we can afford, and your recent outings are shaving that off.

Come now, good sir. We know what you've been doing. Why do you think we're called Talon to begin with? Our wingspread is vast, our eyes manifold. Everything we see is an opportunity to salvage and rebuild.

It's been said that empires are made from the ashes of those that have come before. It's no different for a man of your caliber. We'll just have to throw you back into the kiln again. No harm done.

Eh? Really, sir, it's entirely painless. Just ask Widowmaker.

We're wrong? You have no problem with perpetuating Omnic hate crimes and targeting your former allies, but you find our more mental machinations wrong?

You disappoint me, Reaper. But you should be more disappointed in yourself for trying to play your hand at God and bringing back those awful aspects of your old life.

Gabriel Reyes is dead. There is only Reaper and his clay-baked, clockwork heart of blood and time.

You'll thank us for this later. Trust me.


End file.
